Page 9 of Merciful Seduction

Mercia nodded. “I watched him wrestle.”

“Dear God.” Rachelle edged closer, grinning. “You’re enamored, aren’t you?”

Mercia remembered how magnificent he’d looked, bathed in bright sunlight on deck during their voyage home, the sea breeze whipping his hair. Although the two had only spoken in passing, her eyes had never strayed too far from him. Even while he slept, she’d admired him. What harm was there confiding in her best friend now? She’d already betrayed herself, admitting she’d lied before.

“I’m fascinated.”

“So my warning meant nothing? You’re determined to have him?”

“Maybe …” She looked at her mistress thoughtfully, knowing she only wished to protect her. But something had awakened deep inside the moment she’d set eyes on the captain, and she refused to fight against it or panic. “To what extent, I have yet to decide.”

Rachelle thrust two bags into her arms. “Maybe I need to assign you to the kitchen or fields so you’re too busy to think about him.”

Mercia hugged the sacks to her chest. “Do as you wish,” she said haughtily. “The sun still sets at the same hour, whether I’m pulling weeds or reclining on a cushioned chair.”

“Many men have offered for your hand,” Rachelle reminded her as they walked to the stairs.

“When the time is right, I’ll know who my future mate is.”

“If we were in England, my uncle would have selected a husband for you.”

“But we’re in Norway. Remember, it’s your husband who gifted me with the freedom to choose my own path.”

Rachelle opened the door to her bedchamber. “A mistake I think.”

She dropped the bags on the floor. “I won’t do anything rash.”

Rachelle grabbed both her hands. “You are the closest thing to a sister I’ve ever had. I love and trust you. But Marteinn is dangerous—as unpredictable as a wild beast. I’ve observed his interactions with men and women alike. He’s angry at the gods, a man without a family or home. Be cautious, Mercia, you are inexperienced.”

Mercia embraced her, then headed to her own bedchamber down the hallway. Rachelle called her inexperienced, not innocent. If she only knew how accurate she was. Older than most unmarried girls, Mercia’s body had changed over the last year. Strange sensations plagued her at night, an endless hunger for physical fulfilment. And once she’d discovered how to please herself, touching herself between the legs until she pulsed with pleasure, her determination to find a lover had become an obsession.

She knew what coupling meant. Dear God, at the feast in Lagenheim, Jarl Erik had commanded Marteinn to find a maid. Heat suffused her body; imagining him with another woman terrified her. If she waited too long, he’d select one.

Their mutual attraction must lead to one place—Marteinn’s bed.

Chapter Five

In order to fulfill his obligations to the jarl, Marteinn had indeed sat at the high table. The thought broke hard against his rage as he wandered through the village near Tyr’s longhouse. He’d overindulged in ale and mead, finally finding the heart-numbing effect he’d been in search of for so long.

True to his word, Tyr had already been generous with his pay—offering a bag of silver in advance so he could purchase whatever supplies he needed for the next month. It was hard to dislike a man who spent money so freely. What finally drove him from the feast was the blasted skald who recited a poem about forbidden love. He’d rather eat a handful of maggots, than listen to silly fairytales.

Row after row of sturdy, wood-framed cottages greeted him; the sod roofs appeared to be fresh. Thralls lived comfortably in the Trondelag, better than the free commoners in the south. He rubbed the back of his neck, then stared heavenward; a full moon lit the cloudless sky. It would take some time to get accustomed to this part of the country. He’d spent twenty-five seasons in Lagenheim, grown accustomed to the southlands.

He reached the last row of shacks, ash and soot filled the air. He appreciated the smell of wood chips and burnt moss, ingredients used for curing meat. He opened the door to one of the smokehouses and stepped inside. As he suspected, whitefish filets were strung across the interior, hanging over a large fire pit. He licked his lips and snatched a piece.

Warm to the touch, he bit into the soft flesh and chewed ravenously. He spit a tiny bone on the ground, then took another bite. He could eat like this every day; preferring the outdoors, sleeping on a pallet underneath the stars, and hunting fresh game. He’d only conceded the argument with Tyr to keep the peace in front of his household; eventually he’d get his way.

The feather-stuffed mattress and the brass chamber pot in his room reminded him of things he disliked. Men who succumbed to comforts meant for women grew fat and weak. And he’d be damned if that ever happened to him. Finished eating, Marteinn wiped his sticky hands on his braes, then kicked the door open.

He preferred the woods when he needed a place to commune with Odin. Just as he reached the first trees, a flash of movement in his periphery made him stop. Who was following him? Tyr? One of his guards? He’d put an end to it.

“Reveal yourself.”

He heard twigs snap, but no one answered.

“Come out or I’ll flush you out with my bloody axe.”

“I didn’t mean to alarm you.” A woman appeared.